


Become Human

by ThirteenSocks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Description is lazy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pov: Shiro (Voltron), Rape, Sex bot Keith (Voltron), Suicidal Thoughts, Veteran Shiro (Voltron), it took me 90k to make a good one for my other fic, will update it as soon as I think of something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirteenSocks/pseuds/ThirteenSocks
Summary: Shiro is falling into depression, and at the end of his rope.One day his friend Matt takes him out to an android club, where he meets Keith, a sex android.





	Become Human

**Author's Note:**

> Lazy summary is lazy.  
> Sorry, I’ll update it later.

Morning comes ushered in not by light of the sun, the dark grey sea of clouds battering down their tears upon the city, but by the shrill beep of an alarm. It’s a bit old school, retro, as his friend Matt likes to put it. But Matt has dozens of specialized androids roaming his sprawling three story, that the entire Holt family shares, at the heart of the city. That’s the rub when you and your family work on tech. Though they both served time in the military, Shiro came home due to injury, a fighter jet malfunctioned midflight, Matt came home after completed service. Both are decorated veterans. But Shiro’s missing an arm, and has a deep keloid scar etched across the bridge of his nose, as well as others littering the rest of his flesh.

Shiro claws his hand out to the alarm. It’s almost pointless. It wasn’t like he’d slept much. He’d been laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, when the damned thing went off.

It’s a Saturday, besides.

With the storm pounding against the windows and roof of the apartment, he closes his eyes again.

  
He wakes up at noon. He feels rather than smells that he’s sweat-soaked his sheets and pillow. The grease on his face is caked, suffocating his skin. The cum sock next his bed, dried, used from a day or two ago when he woke up to a wet dream, is pungent. A stack of three bowls, not quite slotting together nicely, due to the silverware shoved between, rests on his night stand. The only thing that gets him up is the sour taste on his tongue, and oils that slick his hair, causing him to itch.

He showers slow.

Each new body part to wash becomes a new goalpost, one he has to psyche himself up to clean.

He tosses one out for the hell it. His load splatters against the quasi-glass, that’s really just plastic, of the shower door. It thick and gunky as it runs down. He snorts, spalshing some water to hurry it along.

He tries not to really catch vision of his prosthetic. He knows what the nightmare was about, and he’d rather avoid it.

The shower rejuvenates him, at least until he exist the bathroom, and the humidity begins to cling to him. He forgoes a towel. It’s another big decision to choose clothes or not, and he settles on at least boxers. They’re the last clean pair. He scrubs at his face with his hands. It feels like he’s been in a coma.

The smells of the room hit him now that his teeth are brushed and sinuses cleared from the shower. He gags, heading into the kitchenette to grab a few grocery bags. They fill quickly with half-eaten takeout, a slice of pizza that’s as stiff as the box it came in.

Shiro peels the curtains back, after having the mind to put on at least a shirt. The sky is still dark, the sun’s rays unable to break through, but it’s a sight brighter than the total darkness when curtains are closed. He opens the windows as well as the sliding glass door to his room’s patio. The overhang keeps the rain from coming in, but the air is much cooler outside. The air conditioner seems to work only every thirs Tuesday.

The sounds of the city below are comforting. Grounding. Cars beep in the distance. Crowds chatter as they walk the crosswalks. Construction from a few blocks down is heard from his apartment. The Cyberlife tower is a fogged blur, tall in the distance.

Shiro’s called back into the room by the ringing of his phone.

”Hello?” He walks onto the balcony and settles into a chair.

”Don’t ”hello” me! Shiro, man. You haven’t returned any of my calls or texts. It’s been almost a full week. I-” Matt cuts off, taking in an audible breath. ”Please don’t hide yourself away like this. When things get bad, come talk to me.”

Shiro lets his head drape back against the headrest. The rain plinks off the awning above, and if he closes his eyes, he can just about imagine it washing against his skin.

”..llo? Shiro. Hey, don’t space out like that. Now I’m really worried. You’re going to get dressed when hang up, and I’m going to swing by. We’re going to lunch.”

He finds his voice, though it’s scratchy. ”Mmm, don’t have a choice then, huh?”

Matt rambles a little more into the reciever. Shiro feels bad, but he just can’t concentrate on it. So he assures the man that he will be ready to go and hangs up.

Matts been a rock for him since they met back in the Garrison days. It was Matt who built the prosthetic for Shiro, which uses the same technology as the androids, so it looks, feels, and functions life-like. But Matt’s also been good about supporting Shiro when it comes to his depression and PTSD. Shiro was offered to live with the Holts, even. But he declined. He loves then, and there’s practically family, but he likes his space more. He’s just not a people person.

He takes one last look at the city from the balcony, then closes the door and rummages around for clean clothes to wear.

  
Matt takes him to a Korean bbq downtown. Shiro hates the fact that Matt is footing the bill, but they both know Shiro couldn’t afford the restaurant. Not without taking way more out of his disability payments than planned.

”What’s got you so down?” Matt asks as he scoops up some kimchi with his chopsticks.

”No-”

”Don’t you ”nothing” me, either, Shirogane.”

Shiro sighs, letting his gaze fall down to the steam rolling off his ginger tea. With it, the herbal aroma enters his nose. It’s calming.

”Well, just... I wonder why I’m still...,” he cradles the cup in his right hand, sensing the heat, but there’s no danger to be had to his prosthetic. His mouth, however, can still be burned. He throws it back in one shot. It’s a nice burn. ”Y’know. Here. Alive. I wonder why I’m still alive. I just... I sit at home all day. The part time just doesn’t get me out enough, or paid enough. I-I’m lonely.”

The soft tink of the metal chopsticks against a porcelain plate catches his attention. Shiro sees Matt’s face, and wishes he didn’t.

Matt reaches a hand on to Shiro, lays it on his shoulder. ”Have you tried online dating? Or those apps?”

Shiro snorts. ”And have to show my face? The scar is ugly and you can’t miss it. I don’t need a pity fuck either.”

”Well. Hm. How about we go out tonight? There’s a show around here later. The android has made himself a name, from what I’ve heard.”

”Resorting to an android, that’s supposed to make me feel better how?”

Matt groans and lifts his hand from Shiro’s shoulder. He gently smacks Shiro’s ear.

”I’ll have you know, plenty of well-to-do’s go. Some of u- them. Some of them, just don’t have the time for dating. And, as someone who works on adroids for a living, I have to say that I think you’re underestimating them.”

Shiro feels a headache coming on. There’s really no arguing with a Holt. ”Ok, fine. Sure. Why not?”

Matt whoops his victory, pumping a fist and all. ”Alright! Just you wait, you unbeliever. The main act is just your type.”

He gives Matt a smile. Or, what he can manage of one. He’s polite enough to act like his mood is changed. Part because he knows the other man is trying so hard. But mostly because the sooner Matt believes Shiro is better, the quicker he gets off Shiro’s back.

At least he gets a free meal and something to do out of this.

* * *

 

  
Shiro has no problem with sex. It’s a stigmatized thing in society, despite all other social progressions (and regressions) over the years. But it’s something natural, for those that want it. And he has an average drive.

But clubs? Prostitution?

It’s not the act that bothers him. It’s the package deal that comes with the establishments. It’s treated like something dirty. It often times attracts other underground activities, like gambling, and drugs. And whiöe he isn’t particularly jealous, he can’t help but feel that he doesn’t want to share a partner. He’s so slow to open up, so afraid, and spiteful about his mangled body, that the idea of being just one, in a sea of plenty, for a man, or even worse, just another customer, who only gets attention for pulling from his wallet, just makes him... sad.

There are men and women who can handle it. But he’s weak enough as is, without factoring in having a boyfriend who is a sex worker.

Probably most of all, it brings him back to the kinds of things he did when he first got home after being discharged.

”Shiro, come on. We’re not even theough the door and you already look ready to leave. C’mon, loosen up, have some fun.” Matt bumps shoulders with him.

Shiro doesn’t want fun though. He wants someone to come home to.

Someone to make a home with.

”Matt, give me a cig.” He’s barely 30 but he might as well be 40. ”I’m gonna go around back. The crowd’s already getting to me.”

Matt throws his hands up and grumbles as he digs into his pockets. Shiro’s thankful he can’t hear what about over the crowd.

  
Shiro makes his way down the alley to the side of the building. The stench of booze is thick around the people standing in the line. A group of women laugh obnoxiously, one of them attempts to shove another playfully, but misjudges the distance and trips over her heel. Some men behind her make an obscene gesture, nodding their heads towards her.

Shiro turns his gaze downward. Old, blackened chewing gum lines the stones as if trying to make a path to the alley. As he approaches, the odor of vomit and alcohol stings. He stuffs the cigarette quickly in his mouth and lights it. It feels like a metaphor for his life, if the fog of his brain would allow him to think that one through.

Tucked between the building and cement wall, a place directly escaping the lights, he leans his head back and draws in a deep breath. The smoke causes a tickle in his throat, and he wants to cough, but he continues to breathe around it. The cigarette makes his mouth dry, and his phlegm thick. His tongue has the taste of acid.

”-rting me!”

A voice breeches Shiro’s mind. It sounds from around the courner, the back to the establishment. He quietly slinks closer, just enough to hear but not see, in case it make him be seen.

”-plastic. You don’t feel shit. C’mere, I’m not done with you.”

Shiro peeks around the courner. His veins already building up a rhythm that threatens to burst them. A light sweat breaks out on his forehead. Time slows down.

”Stop! I said no!” Says a man, no, android? He’s short and small framed, but filled out with soft muscle. Dark hair frames his face, sweeps across his forehead, and nearly hangs into almond eyes that are burning in an intense gaze.

The other man is opposite. He’s tall and stocky. His muscles bulge, especially in the arm that’s gripping tight to the back of the small man’s head. He’s raising the other up by it. Pants and underwear pool at his feet. He’s hard and, if the ripped fabric at the small man’s backside in any indication, getting ready to take care of that.

Worse than time slowing is time lost.

The small man coughs around sobs, begging to be put down.

Shiro loses it.

As if he blinked out of existence for a few minutes, he’s suddenly standing over the tall man, bludgening his head with heavy kicks. It won’t be fatal, but there will be a massive headache. If not for the wound reminding Shiro of what he’s seen on the battle field, he would probably keep beating the man until his skull cracked and brains and its fluid leaked out through the hole.

”You okay?”

Oh.

Shiro looks over at the small man. He must have spaced out. His body feels stiff and he’s not sure he would have been able to move, if not for his attention being redirected.

”I- uh- Wait, are you ok?” He’s got cotton mouth bad. He remembers why he doesn’t smoke. That, and it’s expensive.

The small man cocks his head to the side and approaches Shiro with a hand extended, cautious, as if Shiro were a freightened predator. ”You..,” the man’s voice is sweet, but rich in texture. It’s raspy, but smooth. ”...Thank you.”

Shiro twitches his muscles until they regain full function. He turns to the small man and also cocks his head. ”I’m Shiro.”

For some reason, this seems to confuse the other. If the bunched together brows and softened eyes are read correctly that way.

Plump red lips, bruised and split, part. Shiro follows them to a blossoming bruise on a finely sculpted cheek. ”I’m Keith.” The courner of one eye has a blue LED circle, glowing beneath bangs.

Keith must be a worker then. ”Are you gonna be ok? Uh, Keith.”

The LED changes color.

”I’ll be fine. A little ice should make it feel better. I- I don’t know if I can perform tonight though.”

”Can I at least escor- Wait. Feel?” Shiro reaches out his fingers to touch the bruise across Keith’s cheek.

Keith winces and grabs Shiro’s hand before it can make contact.

”Shit, sorry. I- But, you’re an android. How?” He stammers. The hand around his is warm.

”Yeah. Feel. I- I am, yeah. An android. I’m... defective. Anyways, I should probably get back.” He lets go of Shiro’s hand and scrubs at the back of his neck. There’s hickies and bitemarks along the sides.

”Fuck. Keith, no. I can’t... Listen, I know this sounds.. weird. And I’m a total stranger. And I get it. I’d be weirded out too. Y’know, if a total stranger were like.. ugh ok, hold up.” He scrubs at his face. ”I’m worried. You were almost- yeah. And you think just some ice will help? Can I.. patch you up at my place? Give you a warm bed. I.. I don’t want you heading back in. Look, I’ll give you my knife and if you start getting scared you can just stab me and run, ok?”

Keith bursts into a fit of laughter. He curls in half and clutches his sides.

Shiro huffs. He didn’t think he did that badly.

”Considering you just saved me, and that comforting speech.” Keith pauses for a few more chuckles. ”Alright, Shiro. I’ll stab you on a need-to-do basis.”

Shiro rolls his eyes but smiles despite. He shoots off a quick text to Matt, not wanting to risk the bouncer seeing Shiro make off with one of their performers, and hands over his pocket knife. He carries it with him everywhere. It’s a small bit of safety, and helps with the anxiety.

”C’mon, let’s go catch the bus. I’m not too far from here.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
